


And Quartered

by murderofonerose (atmilliways)



Series: Strike A Chord [2]
Category: Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: Boss/Employee Relationship, Canon-Typical Violence, Gear Branding, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 00:14:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29751165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atmilliways/pseuds/murderofonerose
Summary: Melmord didn’t remember getting as far as under the covers, or know why he had put boxers on to go to bed, but that’s where he was being dragged from.
Relationships: Melmord Fjordslorn/Charles Foster Offdensen
Series: Strike A Chord [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2076360
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	And Quartered

It happened sometime after he’d passed out. Melmord didn’t remember getting as far as under the covers, or know why he had put boxers on to go to bed, but that’s where he was being dragged from. Multiple hands had a hold of his sleep- and booze-heavy limbs, dressing him with rough efficiency in the standard Klokateer pants, shirt, hood, and boots. His feet barely touched the floor as he was hauled out of his cubby-like room and down the long hallway. 

He tried to ask what was happening, but before he could finish getting the words out one of his escorts jostled him so roughly his teeth clicked together. Melmord was so dazedly relieved that he hadn’t bitten his own fucking tongue off that he stayed silent after that. 

Their destination, Melmord learned later, was the hall where newly inducted Dethklok Inc. employees engaged in ritual combat-to-the-death before their official initiation. That night, it was empty and almost completely dark. He craned his head around wildly, trying to figure out what was happening, but all that did was fuck up the hood they’d put on him to where he could barely see—but not before he caught a glimpse of a single forge glowing an angry, ominous red. 

_ That  _ was a fucking hypodermic needle of adrenaline jammed straight into the chest. Melmord tried to jerk his arms and legs free, but the only result was that his escorts tightened their grip and he didn’t—hadn’t been out of the hospital wing long enough to—Fuck, his muscles were  _ fucked _ . He’d already known that, after all the painful mandatory physical therapy from having most of his upper body reconstructed, but the reality of it was a hand around his lungs, squeezing the air out of him no matter how hard he tried to pull it in. 

And he knew exactly whose hand it was. 

The Klokateers at his side put him down roughly, and while they kept grips on Melmord’s shoulders, his hands were at least free. He reached up to straighten his mask and managed a  _ mostly _ steady breath because at least now he could see again. . . .

Not that the view of the forge and the brand being heated to a vivid cherry-red was very comforting. But when he glanced around he saw a glint of two rectangular lenses nearby in the darkness.

That sight brought up both his hackles and his resolve. Melmord caught his breath and instinctively raised both middle fingers their way before he was pushed to his knees. It wasn’t painless landing, but he clenched his jaw and resolved not to make a fucking sound, not to give that bastard the satisfaction. When they went to push him the rest of the way down, he bent forward without resistance. 

The branding block was just bare stone. A cold hand tugged the hood up and swept his hair out of the way, baring the back of his neck. Time slowed, every second stretching like warm taffy, and thank god he was still a little drunk from earlier in the night. That would at least offer some amount of buffer from what was coming. 

_ Come on, come on.  _

Heavy footsteps approached, and the pressure of the hand baring his neck changed slightly as whoever it was shifted out of the way. For lack of any other senses to rely on, Melmord zeroed in on that. The fingers were still cold but warming slowly against his skin. He hadn’t felt calluses—at least, not the rougher kind he would’ve expected from the buff guards that had hauled him out of bed. 

_ Just do it, man, get it over with.  _

The hand was fisted at the base of his skull. It could’ve pulled at his hair, but didn’t. The nearly trimmed nails were pressing into his scalp, but not as hard as they could have—just enough that he knew they were there. 

Shit. He knew  _ exactly _ whose hand that was. 

Melmord took one last deep breath before the brand came into hissing contact with his skin, and took the searing pain of it with the faint suggestion of Charles’ cologne in his lungs.

Just like last time. 


End file.
